


laurel wreath

by savage_starlight



Series: and you could have it all, my empire of dirt [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Foul Language, Friendships in the making, Gen, M/M, Miriam is the team mom, Pining, Poisoning, Relationships in the making, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), Western Gothic, Whump, Whumptober 2019, character injury, whumptober day 21: laced drink, whumptober day 22: hallucination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 23:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savage_starlight/pseuds/savage_starlight
Summary: A spiked drink, a bit of bad luck, and a sick gunslinger."I won't bury you, Clayton Sharpe. None of us will."(Written for Whumptober 2019. Prompts used: Day 21:Laced drink, day 22:Hallucination. Enjoy.)





	laurel wreath

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, y'all!!
> 
> I'm so proud of myself, I actually stuck to a prompt this time. Though also, I've now written like...11,000 words across three fics in three days??? Where is this inspiration in November when I need it???
> 
> Anyway! Thank you again to all who commented on the last story and the one before that, the validation of my obsession is always appreciated. I have at least one more super whumpy fic to write (this one annoying the poor reverend) and after that, we'll see how it goes??? if anyone wants to shoot me some prompts, you can find me over on tumblr at who-gave-atlas-a-pencil.tumblr.com
> 
> This fic gets its title from the song by Bear's Den which shares the name. Check it out if you get a chance - they're a good group, and it's one of the many songs on my playlist for this show.
> 
> Thanks again for all the feedback and I'll see you soon if inspiration holds!!

Clayton doesn’t consider himself picky when it comes to drinking establishments, but the hole they’ve found themselves in this time is shit even by his standards. The doors to the saloon look like they’re hanging to their hinges by a thread, and the floor is soft with rot in places from all the water dripping through the ceiling. It’s called Hell’s Saloon for a reason, he supposes. All the same, after about the eighth time a rat runs over his foot in ten minutes, he’s more than ready to leave.

Problem is, he can’t. They need information and this place is supposed to have it, buried in one of the shady characters lurking in the corners. Miriam and Arabella have been doing their thing for about an hour now, gliding between tables accompanied by Aloysius and batting their eyelashes and making fools of every person they talk to. Clayton isn’t sure how any man in his right mind can think somebody with the sharpness of Bella’s eyes is in need of protection, but the ladies use the underestimation to their advantage and the strategy has proven deadly effective.

Clayton’s been keeping an eye on things at a distance, the way he always does, but his gaze keeps drifting. A few seats down the bar, Matthew is trying not to raise suspicion as he nurses a glass of whiskey and plays at reading his bible to himself. He looks like a puppy in a room full of hunting dogs, his eyes dancing up to look at his surroundings nervously at regular intervals in a way that’s far from subtle, no matter his intents. Clayton’s caught the bartender giving him a look that could bury Christ himself several times now, and he knows it’s dangerous but he keeps his coat open all the same, ever mindful of the guns at his hips.

There’s a flash of colour on his periphery, a warm hand on his shoulder that squeezes gently. “Would a fine gentleman such as yourself be willing to do a good turn and escort us ladies back to our home?” Miriam asks, leaning in theatrically close to whisper in his ear.

“Certainly.” Clayton slaps payment on the bar and rises. He catches Matthew’s eye and gives a nod, quick and subtle.

The Reverend stands up so fast he hits his knee on the bar, and he rubs it ruefully. “I should be heading out as well. I could also keep an eye on you ladies, if you would like.”

“I would find that agreeable indeed, Father,” Arabella says as she appears at his elbow with Aloysius in tow. “Three gentlemen to watch out for two ladies sounds like a fine arrangement.”

The bartender narrows his eyes and slides a shot on the counter. “One more for the road, Reverend. I insist.”

Matthew blinks, perplexed. Clayton doesn’t know if he’s noticed the death glares he’s been receiving, but instinct tells him he can’t be too careful. Before the preacher can react, Clayton grabs the shot and throws it back, the whiskey burning sharp in his throat as he puts the glass back down and meets the barkeep’s gaze dead on. “Men of the cloth ain’t supposed to be drinkin,” he says, and pretends he doesn’t feel Matthew staring as he leads the way out.

* * *

They’re on the road an hour later, each of them saddled up on their own horse and keeping a decent pace. Clayton suspects Arabella would prefer if they had waited to set out until the next day, but Miriam’s excitement over this artifact they’re looking for had been too infectious for any of them to turn down. Part of him regrets that now as they ride beneath the mid-afternoon sky, the sun beating mercilessly down on his neck like it means to roast him alive.

Grumbling, he holds the reins of his horse in one hand and pulls the brim of his hat lower over his eyes. Aloysius gives him a sideways look from where he’s riding beside him. “Everythin’ alright there, Mister Coffin?”

“Fine,” Clayton replies, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Sun’s bright. You ever gonna stop callin’ me that?”

“You ever gonna smile without someone threatenin’ you into it?” Clayton doesn’t answer, and Aloysius snorts. “That’s about what I figured. Cheer up, Mister Coffin. We ain’t dead yet,” he says, and rides ahead to keep pace with Miriam and Bella, striking up an easy conversation with them as Matthew falls behind to take his place beside Clayton.

“Afternoon,” he says, a smile twitching across his face, shy and a little awkward. “The dust we’re kicking up ahead isn’t bothering you, is it?”

Clayton shrugs. “’Preciate the concern, but when you’ve been ridin’ horses as long as I have, you stop noticing things like dust.”

“I suppose that stands to reason.” Matthew pauses and tugs at his collar, making a face. “Is it just me, or is it hotter than the blazes out here?”

“That’s what you get for wearin’ your full preacher suit underneath that coat in a desert,” Clayton says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “How many layers you got on right now – three? Four? One of them solid black?”

“Yes, yes. We’ve established I’m an idiot,” Matthew mutters, flushing an impressive shade of red.

Beneath the shadows of his hat, Clayton smiles. “Never said that, Father.”

The ride passes quickly like that, the hours bleeding into each other smooth and easy. Clayton trades quips with everyone who talks with him, bites back a smile when Aly starts ribbing Arabella about holding the reins of her horse like they’re a gun she’s expecting to go off at any minute. At some point, Matthew asks if anyone knows a song to pass the time, and Aloysius immediately pipes up with a song raunchy enough to turn the Reverend red from the neck up for nearly half an hour after it’s over.

They make camp near an outcropping of rocks that’ll shield them from the worst of the night winds just as the sun is starting to dip low in the sky, taking the light with it as it heads toward the horizon. Just like always, Aloysius immediately gets started on making something edible, which is good since despite the constant low-simmering feud they’ve established, even Clayton has to admit the man’s a hell of a cook.

He usually tries to help everyone get settled for the night – takes the horses toward a patch of grass to eat, gets what wood he can gather for the fire they’ll need – but tonight when Clayton dismounts his legs are like jelly, going out from under him the second his feet touch ground. His horse shies away and he blinks in surprise at the dirt for a minute before pushing himself up.

“Clayton?” Matthew drops what he’s doing – nearly on his foot, Clayton notices with fond exasperation – and crosses to his side. “Are you alright?”

Clayton waves him off as he stands, slightly wobbly, and brushes the dirt off the legs of his pants. “Fine, I’m fine. Just dismounted stupid. Call off the priests, I’m not dead.”

“That’s a bit rude,” Matthew mutters, but instead of elbowing him like he sometimes does he just fixes Clayton with a stern look. “It’s not like you to do that. Are you certain you’re alright?”

“Nothing bruised but my pride, Reverend,” he says. “Miss Whitlock, you can stop grinning any time you’d like now.”

“Why of course, Mister Sharpe.” Across the camp, Bella schools her face clean as the picture of innocence. “Beg your pardon, I thought it only natural that I might be concerned for our finest horseman.”

“Cute,” Clayton mutters, and thinks of the gesture he might make if he hadn’t learned young to treat women with respect.

“Are you certain you’re alright?” Matthew says, resting a hand on his shoulder. There’s concern in his eyes, dark and real.

Clayton shrugs it off. “Fine. Now go work on settin’ up while I see about the horses.”

* * *

The evening’s settled in proper by the time Clayton makes his way back to the camp. Around the fire, Matthew’s praying over the food while Aloysius dishes it out with a wide grin and a wink. He waves when he spots Clayton. “Mister Coffin, what took you so long?”

“I was bracing myself for the pleasure of your company,” Clayton says without hesitation, sitting down heavily on the ground. He jerks his chin toward a tree a couple hundred feet out. “Horses are over there, if anyone fancies a late night ride. What’s for supper?”

“A fine stew, if I may say so, Mister Fogg,” Arabella says, giving him an appreciative smile. “I hadn’t even realised you’d picked up more ingredients before we left.”

“Well, first night on the road I thought we might want something a bit more hearty than jerky and biscuits.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with jerky and biscuits,” Clayton mutters.

“Ain’t nothin right with ‘em, neither,” Aly says with a curled lip. “I spent a lot of time eating stuff tastes like dirt. I’d just as soon avoid goin’ back to that if I can.”

Across the fire, Matthew snorts, then starts coughing furiously, setting his bowl aside. Aloysius thumps him on the back a few times, and after a minute solid he finally subsides. “Think you’re supposed to chew the food before you swallow it, Father,” Miriam says, looking slightly concerned.

Aloysius huffs in offense. “Who taught you to chew stew?”

“I don’t think my downfall came from chewing the stew,” Matthew says, still somewhat raspy as he finishes off a swig of water. “It was trying to breathe it that proved to be a problem.”

“Well don’t do that then, Reverend,” Aloysius says, thumping him on the back one more time for good measure. “Won’t get to your stomach that way.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” Matthew says. Through the fire, he looks at Clayton and raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to have some of this? I promise, the choking was my own error, not a reflection of Mister Fogg’s skills.”

Clayton doesn’t doubt that for a minute. All the same, when he breathes in he catches the stew’s scent and his stomach starts to churn at the thought of the cooked meat. He makes a face, then shakes his head. “Think I’ll save the good stuff for you four, since you find my jerky and biscuits so bland,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Suit yourself, Mister Coffin,” Aly says. “I’ll take your share, no problem. Anyone else for seconds?” The reply is instantaneous and Aloysius laughs, engaging the others once more in conversation as Clayton searches in his pack and pulls out a strip of jerky and starts to nibble. It’s tasteless and dry in his mouth, like sand.

Miriam sidles up to him, taking a position by her side. The others are still talking obliviously, but the look she gives Clayton is keen as she gazes between the barely touched jerky and the stew and Clayton’s unenthused expression. “You sure you’re feeling alright, Mister Sharpe?”

“Just dandy, Miss Landisman.”

“You wouldn’t lie to a lady, would you?” She’s giving him a strange look, the one that makes him feel like she’s staring square at his spine.

“Sure wouldn’t, ma’am,” he says. “Think it’s just something I ate.”

Miriam frowns, but doesn’t call him on his dishonesty. “You’ll let me know if you start feeling unwell, I’m sure.” It’s an order, not a question.

Clayton knows better than to disagree. He ducks his head in a nod. “Sure will.”

“Good.” Miriam rests a hand on his knee and squeezes briefly before standing. “Better eat that jerky before it gets to tasting worse, Clayton,” she says, then leaves him to his own devices on his side of the fire.

He watches, like he always does, his eyes following the others around, lingering on the Reverend every now and then though he’s loath to admit it. He nibbles bit by bit on his jerky but only gets through half the strip before his appetite abandons him entirely and he tucks it away again to consume later.

Lulled by the laughter of the others and the warmth of the fire, he doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until there’s a hand on his shoulder, warm and familiar as it gently shakes him awake. Blearily, he blinks up to see Matthew overhead and staring down at him with a faint smile. “It’s a good thing you leaned backwards and not forwards, falling asleep by a fire,” he says. “You should have mentioned that you were tired. One of us might have handled the horses to let you rest.”

“’M not tired,” Clayton mutters, sitting up. His jacket is dusty with sand and dirt, and the motion makes the world spin in a way he’s not used to. He squints at the fire and suddenly regrets having fallen asleep so close to it. He’s hotter than hell now, hotter than he was even in the daylight, and he’s got a mighty headache to top it off. Probably high time he drinks some water, now that he’s thinking of it, but the thought makes his stomach churn.

“Pleasure meeting you, Mister Not Tired,” Aloysius says, and his voice sounds like a train horn spiking into Clayton’s brain. “You always keep watch with your eyes closed? Askin’ for a friend.”

The gesture he’d only barely refrained from directing at Arabella earlier makes a comeback now, and as Clayton lets his hand fall to Aly’s hoots of laughter, he feels Matthew’s gaze still resting heavy on him. He turns to look, and those dark eyes are fixed on his face, the shadow of something unreadable dancing in their depths. “Why don’t you get some sleep away from the fire, Clayton? Aly or I will wake you if you need to take a turn on watch.”

“_When _I need to take a turn,” Clayton corrects, because he doesn’t feel like arguing but he’s not letting either of them go about sleep-deprived on his account.

“When you need to take a turn. Of course.” Matthew’s still watching him, and Clayton has no idea what he sees. “Rest, Clayton. We’ll handle things for now.”

Aloysius is right. He’s too tired to argue. Clayton crawls over to his bedroll and situates himself, wincing at the way his head pounds. “You do that,” he says, and pulls his hat over his eyes.

* * *

He’s on fire. There’s a mob and they’re chasing him with torches and shotguns, they’re grabbing at his ankles, and he doesn’t run fast enough and he’s on fire, they’ve caught him, they’re burning him alive-

“Clayton!” A hushed voice cuts through the screams in Clayton’s head and his eyes shoot open. There’s fire in his periphery and the world is swimming and over him, Matthew’s eyes are dark and his face is pinched with concern. “Clayton, wake up. It’s fine. You’re dreaming.”

Clayton shoves him away. Matthew stumbles back with a brief grunt of surprise, but Clayton ignores him, already scrambling away past the edge of the camp as fast as he can on hands and knees. He only gets about ten feet before he’s retching, bile burning in the back of his throat as he empties the meagre contents of his stomach on the ground.

Christ, his head hurts. It’s like there’s a pickaxe shoved into the side of it and he’s the only one who knows. His guts burn like somebody’s reached inside while he was sleeping and carved up every inch of them with glass, and his arms are trembling. Even when he stops puking, Clayton can still feel himself shake.

Matthew’s there, holding his hair back from his face, a hand on his back as if to steady him. “Easy, Clayton. Just breathe.”

Clayton spits on the ground, his mouth tasting foul. A canteen appears uncapped in his periphery, and he shakes his head. “Hate to waste it,” he says, the words burning.

“It’s not a waste to keep you feeling alright,” Miriam says, an edge of steel to her tone. “Get the taste out of your mouth and get something in you again. You start dry heaving, you’re only gonna feel worse.”

Defeated, Clayton sits back on his haunches and takes the canteen, then takes the handkerchief Aloysius offers him from where he stands nearby. “Goddamn,” the man mutters. “Can’t believe you thought this was a better idea than eating my cooking. You alright there, Clayton?”

“Just fine, excepting the recent display and my current status as a spectacle,” Clayton snaps, wiping at his mouth. “None of you seen a man vomit before?”

“Don’t get snappy with us because you’re not well, young man.” Miriam crouches down as best she can in her dress, careful to avoid the pile of sick. “You gonna tell us what’s ailing you or do we have to guess?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe it was the food from that fuckin’ saloon earlier. Christ knows there were enough rats there to give anyone the plague.” He feels woozy just thinking about it, and he breathes through his mouth to keep from being sick again from the smell.

“Ain’t none of the rest of us who ate out of there pukin’ our guts up,” Aly points out. “You sure it ain’t something else?”

“I ain’t sure of shit right now.” Clayton braces himself and stands, then immediately proceeds to almost fall over. Matthew catches his arms and steadies him, just in time.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be standing right now,” he says, his brow creased.

Clayton hates this. He hates being sick. He hates being looked at. He hates being seen. This probably isn’t anything worse than a bad bug, but the others aren’t about to listen to him say that. The easiest way out of the situation is to agree with them, to shut up and let them handle things. The thought makes him even more nauseous, but then his guts knot up again with another fiery cramp and he decides, wincing, that it’ll be a lot easier than trying to fight right now. “Then lemme go back to laying down,” he says, moving to shove Matthew away.

The Reverend resists easily. “Calm yourself. I’ll help you over.” An arm around Clayton’s back, they start together back over to his bedroll. It’s a short walk, but with the pain tearing through his belly and a fever burning through his skin and his head pounding at every step, it feels as good as a mile.

From her own roll across the camp, Clayton feels Arabella’s eyes fixed on him like lead weights. “Everything alright, Clayton?”

He half falls, half sits on the ground and immediately rolls onto his side. “I’m fine, Miss Whitlock,” he says, and presses his eyes shut.

* * *

There’s whispers in the air. They’re talking about him. Their voices are hushed. The fire’s hot.

“It ain’t normal.”

What do they know about it?

“Look at him.”

He hopes they don’t. He doesn’t want them to.

“What do you think’s the matter?”

Silence. Words hunt him down like wolves in the night.

“What do you think we should do?”

* * *

There’s whispers in the air. Everybody’s staring. People close their doors when they see him. Nobody wants a dead man on their doorstep.

There’s blood on his hands. It’s caked into his clothes. It’s stuck under his nails. He can’t get it out.

The six shot at his side burns like fire, an accusation he can't escape.

* * *

He wakes up. The sun is bright, too bright, like a railroad spike straight through both eyes. He goes to shade them but his hands are made of lead. His mouth is full of cotton. Maybe it’s thirst. Maybe it’s a gag.

“Clayton?” He knows that voice but it doesn’t matter. God can’t help him here.

* * *

He wakes up but his eyes won’t open. It’s dark here, dark and cold. There’s something warm beside him, wrapped around him. His whole body is burning from the inside out. Any minute now it’ll leave him as bones. Nobody will notice one more unmarked grave.

Hands brush his hair back from his face but they’re cold, cold as ice. Cold as a corpse.

* * *

There’s a pair of arms wrapped around him. He’s on a horse and the sun’s too bright. He doesn’t know where he’s going and nobody will tell him and he doesn’t know how long he’s been here but they won’t take him alive. He falls off sideways and hits the ground hard, but it doesn’t stop him. His legs are burning but that doesn’t stop him either.

Somebody tackles him to the ground. “Clayton, you’re alright, just calm down-”

“Get the fuck off me!” He needs his guns. He reaches and they aren’t there. He needs his guns.

“Clayton, calm down-“

“I said get off!” He slams an elbow hard at his attacker. He knows that voice. He won’t let them take him, not like this. Not now, not ever.

There’s a pair of arms wrapped around him. The world goes dark.

* * *

He opens his eyes and it’s dark out. It’s cold. It’s so fucking cold.

There’s a pair of arms around him. “Clay, hold on to me. I’ll anchor you. Hold on.”

* * *

Clayton opens his eyes in an unfamiliar room, and for the first time in fuck-knows how long the action doesn’t make him want to puke. Sunlight drifts in warm and clear through a nearby window. There’s a wooden ceiling over him, wooden walls with hooks on them nearby. His coat is hanging on one, his gun belt from another.

He needs his guns. A momentary panic seizes Clayton and he shoots up straight, only to find a hand reaching out immediately to press against his chest.

“Easy, Mister Sharpe, easy.” Miriam’s voice is gentle but firm. “Don’t hurt yourself when you’re just now getting fixed.”

Clayton stills and looks over at her, propping himself up on one elbow. “Ma’am?” he says, and it comes out like a croak.

Miriam lets her hand fall and reaches for a glass on a bedside table. “Drink this.” When he hesitates, she holds it out to him a second time. “It’s water. You’ve been out of it a few days now. Your throat can’t feel better for it.”

Because there’s no point resisting when she’s right, Clayton does as he’s told. He sits up carefully and sips at the water, then takes a more hearty swig when he doesn’t immediately feel like retching. He drinks it in full, then lets the glass rest, noticing with a distant itch of discomfort that his hands are bereft of their usual gloves. “Much obliged, Missus Landisman,” he says, and ducks his head.

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s Miriam?” She huffs in exasperation as she takes the glass, then studies his face. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Clayton withers at the look she gives him, entirely too similar to the ones his mama had given him for being particularly ornery. “Better,” he amends, looking at his hands.

“Well, that’s promising.” Miriam settles back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “I’d have been worried if you were feeling worse.”

“What happened?” he asks, rather than acknowledging the faint sarcasm of her response.

“You got poisoned, that’s what happened.” There’s a sharpness to Miriam’s voice, an edge of anger. Clayton doesn’t know who it’s directed at, but he’s a little scared to ask. “Snake venom of some kind. Arabella was the one who figured out the symptoms, so you might thank her next you see her. And Aloysius, for that matter, since he found the materials to keep you from dying on the road to this fine establishment.”

“And this establishment is where, exactly?” The room they’re in is miles above anything a person could find in Deadwood.

“Rapid City. It was closest and the Reverend knew the way. He’s from these parts, it seems.”

“How is he?” The question falls from Clayton’s mouth before he can stop it, and his fingers tighten in the sheets, instinctive.

Miriam gives him a keen look. “In the church, usually, or keeping busy about town. You know how he is.”

“And the other two?”

“They’ve found ways to keep themselves busy too. Aly’s the life of any party and Arabella was sold on this place the moment she found something to read.”

Clayton frowns. “What about that artifact we were supposed to be looking for? The fountain of youth thing, whatever it was.”

“The fountain of youth is a myth, and nowhere near portable enough to be of use to me,” Miriam says, waving a hand. “As for the artifact, we didn’t find it. We were more concerned about seeing to you.”

Clayton’s cheeks flare. “My apologies for the inconvenience,” he says, then yelps when Miriam slaps him none-too-gently on the arm.

Her gaze is steel. “Enough of that. You aren’t an inconvenience, Clayton. At some point in time, you ought to accept that. Don’t apologise again,” she says, when he opens his mouth. “Not unless you’re sorry about being stubborn as a mule and stupid as bricks. Why on this good Earth would you lie about being poisoned, young man? It was dangerous and foolish and if we hadn’t been lucky, we could’ve wound up burying you out there.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Clayton says, feeling more than a little exposed. He pulls into himself just slightly, digs his fingers into his leg. “I didn’t think poison was the problem.”

“How did you get yourself into that state anyway? The doctor couldn’t find any bites.”

“I didn’t get bit.” Clayton catches the look Miriam is giving him and sighs. There’s no getting away from this without an explanation. He hates to admit it, but after everything that’s happened, that’s probably the least he owes them all. “Back in that fuckin’ Podunk saloon, the bartender was glarin’ holes in the back of the Reverend’s skull every time he looked away. I don’t know what his fuckin’ issue was.”

“I’m afraid I’m not connecting the dots here, Mister Sharpe.”

“It was probably him. That last shot he tried to give Matthew before we headed out, I didn’t trust him so I drank it instead. He must have spiked it with something.”

Miriam looks at him with a raised eyebrow, and for a moment she doesn’t say anything. When she finally does, her tone is measured and careful. “So your natural reaction to a potential danger to the Reverend’s life was to instead endanger your own,” she summarises neatly.

It sounds stupid, put like that. Suicidally stupid, in fact. Clayton’s cheeks flare again, and he looks away. “Matthew’s a good man,” he says. “You said it yourself.”

“So are you, Clayton.” Miriam puts a hand under his chin and lifts his head so he’ll look at her, and though he stiffens he lets her do it. She studies him for a long moment, and her eyes are hard but they are also kind. “We’ll discuss this bartender business further at a later date, when we’re in a better position to resolve the relevant issues. Until then, you take it easy, and you stop throwing yourself in front of a bullet to keep other people from being shot, you understand me?” Her eyes are boring into his and he knows that look. He knows better than to disagree.

He nods, just slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Miriam releases his chin and pulls away. “I won’t bury you, Clayton Sharpe. None of us will.” She stands and tosses something on the bed, and he looks down to see his guns, both of them, their barrels glinting in the light through the window. “Now get yourself decent for public viewing. I’ll go tell the others you’re awake. You go speak to the Reverend.”

* * *

The church in Rapid City is a hell of a lot nicer than the one in Deadwood. It’s not half-burned, for one thing. For another, it’s run down, but it isn’t rickety. Walking into it doesn’t make him feel like the skin’s about to crawl off his bones either, which is saying something since the church in Deadwood did that even before three people burned alive in it.

It doesn’t take long to find Matthew. He’s the only one in the church in the absence of a service, with the exception of Clayton himself, and he’s kneeling before the altar with his head bowed like there’s shackles around his neck. There’s a pang of guilt that goes through Clayton’s belly at the knowledge that like as not he’s the cause of the Reverend’s current devout state, but he tries to push it aside. Miriam might kill him if he doesn’t, and he has no doubt that she has her ways of knowing.

Clayton keeps his coat closed, and he walks up slowly, careful not to make too much noise. As much as he wants to talk to Matthew, he doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t want to break this moment. Here, now, kneeling in the sun that shines through the church windows, the Reverend looks peaceful, and for the first time in a long time there’s a part of Clayton that feels the same way. He’s not a religious man, but he knows in his bones that this is sacred, that there is something of a holy thing in the way Matthew’s lashes lay long and dark across his cheeks, mouth moving in silent prayer. He’s still got that old rosary in his hands, and he’s holding it like a lifeline, and Clayton doesn’t know where he finds his faith but he’s grateful for it anyways. He’s grateful for anything that keeps that kindness in Matthew’s bones.

It’s a long while before Matthew finishes, crossing himself and murmuring a final, soft _amen._ He stands up, his knees creaking in the silence of the church, and when he turns around he freezes halfway through sticking the rosary in his pocket where it always lives. His eyes are wide like a doe’s and twice as warm. “Clayton?”

Clayton touches the brim of his hat and smiles faintly. “Matthew.”

“Clayton!” The other man crosses the distance between them in two quick strides, and then he’s being crushed in the embrace of a man with far more upper body strength than any preacher Clayton’s met in all his life. “You’re finally awake,” Matthew says, and when he finally pulls away he’s grinning with a light to put Christ himself to shame. “It’s so good to see you well again, my friend.”

Clayton smiles and claps him on the shoulder, digging his fingers in. “Good to see you too, Matt. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Interrupt-? Don’t be foolish. You’re the best interruption I might have hoped for.” He scans Clayton’s face. “You’re feeling better then?”

“Still on the green side of the grass, what little grass there is,” Clayton confirms. “I’m told I have Aly and Miss Whitlock to thank for that.”

“Those two and many other miracles.” Matthew embraces him again, and this time he doesn’t let go. “You gave us quite a scare. Things were…It was close, for a time.”

“I know.” Clayton can’t see his face, and he’s guiltily, horribly grateful for that. It’s hard enough to hear the pain in the words as they rumble through Matthew’s chest where it’s pressed against his own. “Miriam already laid into me about the hell I put you through.” He wants to say he’s sorry, but the lie sticks in his throat. He isn’t sorry. If he hadn’t taken the shot, Matthew would have. There’s not much justice to be found in this world to begin with. He isn’t sure how he would have dealt with the injustice of that.

“Though her words may have been harsh, I’ve no doubt her reasoning was sound,” Matthew says. He pulls away and looks down at Clayton, their faces only inches apart. “What possessed you to hide something like that? You could’ve died.”

“I know,” Clayton says again, swallowing. “I know.” He wants to look away, but instead he makes himself keep staring right back at Matthew, those impossibly kind eyes of his. “I was being an idiot. 'Stupid as bricks,' as Miriam put it.” He’s still being one now. If he was smart, he would be running away, changing his name and leaving this place and these people in the dust. Attachments aren’t good for much outside of tying a man down, and he’s never been about that life.

All the same, these people have pulled him half-dead across who-knows how many miles and dropped everything to save his life. He owes them a little faith.

“You don’t strike me as the foolish type, Clayton,” Matthew says. “It’s not in your nature. There must be more to the story than that.”

_There is, _Clayton doesn’t say. _There’s you. _Taking that shot had been a dumb thing to do. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it again. “Let’s just say, there are certain situations that I could have handled better in the past, and which I intend to handle better moving forward.”

“That’s all I can ask.” Matthew smiles again, wide and kind, and there’s something Clayton would say about that if he really was an idiot. But he knows better. He smiles back, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Then the church door opens with a loud bang and Aly strides in. “I’ll be goddamned,” he says, “the dead really do rise again.”

Standing in the sunlight only inches away, Matthew throws his head back and laughs.


End file.
